


whose mirage fills the abyss

by GreyFey



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Don't ask for context, F/F, I've been waiting for these two to hook up, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Someone help, This is 3K words of pure, Undiluted, for the past centuries, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 04:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14633874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyFey/pseuds/GreyFey
Summary: Here they are, and there she is. At the center of the sun, finally. Ceding to the pull of its gravity after months of fighting it.





	whose mirage fills the abyss

Here they are, and there she is. At the center of the sun, finally. Ceding to the pull of its gravity after months of fighting it. Drawn in, as was inevitable, head bowed in defeat, into the eye of an exploding star. Silk slides off her shoulder, drips down like water, and she knows the material is cool, is supposed to feel like a caress, fresh and evanescent, but –

Oh, but she burns.

Her skin is thrumming. Her skin is scraped raw, stretched too tight over her bones, and burning. Blood pushes against her veins, pulses desperately. Frenetically. Her chest is too small, her heart a beating tattoo behind the cage of her ribs. She thinks she may be about to die.

She's never felt more alive.

The dress sweeps over her breasts on its way to the floor, and she feels it low in her stomach, at the bottom of her spine.

Everything is happening in slow motion, suspended like the breath in her throat, the thoughts in her head, and an eternity passes before the stupid piece of garment is done pooling at her feet. There's a chill in the air, she thinks. There should be. The house has been uninhabited for days. Weeks. Logic says the draft should help with the fever that's smouldering away in her sternum. It doesn't.

But then again, logic went and fucked off a long while back.

Her eyes closed at some point, though she can't remember when, exactly. She opens them again in the stretch of silence that follows the falling of her clothes, before it can smother her down into nothingness.

Villanelle is staring. There's one, maybe two feet of nothing but air between them, and she's staring, her eyes the only part of her that are moving. They trails tracks over her body, their weight like a physical touch, and Eve waits, half-expecting a sense of self-consciousness that never comes. The sentiment has no place here, in this room. In this moment. It suffocates and dies long before brushing the edges of her awareness. The more complex human emotions vanish, unravel like worn cotton, in the face of the extremes of the world, she's found. Hunger, for instance, is good at making people shrink into their lizard's brain, stripped bare of anything but gnawing, relentless _want._

Villanelle looks hungry. Notably, strikingly hungry.

And it's Eve who wants.

She sways on her feet. Towards _her_ ; pulled in again by this thing that sits just beneath her navel, that she no longer wishes to resist. God, she wants to sink, now. She wants to drown. She wants to be dragged under, into the dark, never to come back for air. She wants.

She wants.

And there's a slow smirk curling the corners of Villanelle's mouth, one that doesn't match the look in her eyes, and she's stepping forward, at long last, a quick stride that lacks her usual grace, and –

And they're kissing.

Her lips are impossibly warm, and startlingly soft. Eve's never kissed anyone with such soft lips before. There had been Niko, whose kisses always scratched from the press of his mustache and stubble. There had been the other men before him, whose memory she doesn't have the strength to pull up at the moment. There had been good kisses, and terrible ones.

This doesn't feel like any of them.

This is a crush of elastic, wielding flesh, with the suggestion of teeth behind it. This is a stream of hot breath against her cheek, a scrape of clothes that aren't hers against her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.

Villanelle kisses the way Eve imagines she does everything in her life; overwhelmingly, with single-minded intent. She teases and pushes, and Eve feels weak with it.

She moves close, crowds in, a hand gripping Eve's neck, fingers sinking into her unbound hair, the other splayed high on her back. She sucks Eve's bottom lip into her mouth, nips at it in a way that's almost a bite, and all Eve can do is steady herself on her shoulders, open her mouth until Villanelle understands the invitation for what it is. Their tongues meet, tangle in a slick, easy slide that feels practised, as though they had done this a thousand times before.

Eve's throat emits a sound she's never heard before, something low, not quite a moan, that vibrates in her chest, and Villanelle smiles, presses harder, so hard it's almost bruising, and Eve is light-headed from lack of air but she'd rather faint than move away. She needs this more than she needs oxygen, or food, or sleep. She's been needing this for months. For a lifetime. She wants this moment to never end, wants to hold on to it, dig her fingers in until they bleed. Let the world turn and collapse around them; she doesn't care anymore. The Twelve, the Queen, England. Let them do as they please, rip each others apart, so long as they let her have this. So long as they let her have _her_.

She barely notices Villanelle walking her backwards until the back of her calves buck against the edge of her mattress. A push at the center of her chest, and she lets gravity claim her, stomach swooping as she falls into the bed she used to share with her husband. The assassin follows in after her, on top of her, holding herself up so that they're barely touching.

There's a febrile glint in Villanelle's eyes. Her lips are red, full of blood, shining visibly even in the low lighting of the room. Parted just enough for Eve to see the white of her teeth. Her hair has spilled from the bun that held it back, rich, honeyed strands brushing the flushed skin of her delicate cheekbones. She looks dangerous like this, barely restrained. She looks like every feline that's ever stalked the Earth, condensed into a single, human form.

“Have you ever been with a woman before, Eve Polastri?” she asks, Russian accent bleeding in, roughening the words.

“No,” Eve says. It takes her a second to recognise her own voice because, Jesus. She sounds wrecked.

Villanelle smiles. A disarming, beautiful smile that dimples her cheeks. “Good.”

She leans in slowly. Deliberately. With relish. There's no way she can miss the catch to Eve's breath with so little space between them. _Good,_ Eve thinks, repeats to herself. Good, let her see the way her entire being is reorienting itself. Lies and faux-semblants no longer have a place between the two of them.

Lips graze her own, a barely-there caress, gone before Eve can catch it. She considers protesting, but then Villanelle is mouthing at her jaw, bellow her ear, spit-slick kisses that feel as though she's licking Eve's bared nerves. She has to turn her head away, exposing more of her throat for Villanelle to lavish. The woman latches onto the stretch of skin, sucking, biting, and Eve is loosing her god-damned _mind_ –

Hands scramble up, scratch at Villanelle's back, but there's no purchase to be found there, nothing to hold onto for dear life. Fingers fist into the expensive fabric of her clothes, rumple it up. Villanelle sinks her teeth into the knot of muscle where Eve's throat meets her shoulders.

“Off,” she manages between two pants, pulling at Villanelle's shirt in a way that's entirely too desperate, half-hoping the fabric will tear so she can have _skin_. “Please, just – off. Take it off, Villanelle off off off – ”

And finally, amazingly, Villanelle is helping, detaching herself from Eve's throat, sitting back to start unbuttoning. The shirt's got a stripped, black and orange tiger embroidered on it, a magnificent, sinuous thing which fits Villanelle perfectly. It's the only reason why Eve forces herself to work loose the bottom buttons rather than make them fly to the four corners of the bedroom.

The shirt fall open, onto a wealth of pale, smooth flesh, the toned expanse of Villanelle's stomach, the soft swell of her breasts, covered by a black lace bra that's probably worth a month of Eve's salary. Eve gets a hand into the opening of the clothe, presses it against the woman's side just to see the contrast between their skin-tones. Sleek muscles jump under her palm. Her other hand goes to push Villanelle's shirt off her shoulders. A handful of scars crisscross the assassin's torso, gleam dully in the lamplight flooding the room from the street. Eve wants to trace them all with her tongue.

The shirt lands somewhere Eve doesn't give a fuck about, closely followed by the pants through some gymnastic manoeuvre. She unhooks the bra, and finds she's not all that prepared for the sight of Villanelle's breasts. She shouldn't be unsettled, she knows. She's seen plenty of tits in her life. She's a woman. A supposedly mature, grown woman. But it's the first time she looks at breasts and feels the urge to touch them, with her hands, with her mouth. It's the first time she wants to circle the darker skin of a woman's areola to feel her nipples tighten against her tongue. Or maybe it's not. Maybe she's always wanted this, and never noticed before.

“I don't know,” she says, watching her own hand trail up Villanelle's waist, fascinated. “I don't know what I'm doing.” She doesn't feel ashamed to admit it, strangely. She's a long way past shame, and fear, and uncertainty.

“It's all right,” Villanelle says. Her pupils are blown wide. She looks drugged. “I will show you.”

She traps Eve's chin between two of her fingers, topples them up so that she's lying on top of her, her weight a comforting anchor, and it's a shock of skin and sheets, and Eve kisses back, fearing she might burst out of her own body with the way it's buzzing all over.

Villanelle is a study in contrasts. The velvet of her skin against the steel of her muscles, the sweetness of her tongue against the bite of her teeth, the measure of her motions against the grip of her fingers. It's all new and familiar at the same time, like feeling the beat of a music Eve had long forgotten.

There are hands everywhere. Threading through her hair. Pulling at it until she moans. Pressing against her stomach. Holding down her hips. Stroking the inside of her thighs.

Villanelle cups one of her breasts, thumb rubbing the nipple while her mouth is leaving a wet path towards the other. Kissing the underside of it before pulling at it between her teeth, delicately, just enough to have Eve's back arch off the bed.

Villanelle hums. “Beautiful,” she says. The word, spoken into Eve's skin, sears itself into her bones.

She's distantly aware that she's been making noises she'll be embarrassed to think about in the morning, but she can't bring herself to care just yet. Villanelle is watching her as though she's cataloguing each of her reactions, testing out what makes her tick while being careful to keep her away from the edge of orgasm, this she _does_ care about.

“Oksana, I swear to God – ”

Villanelle licks the skin between her breasts, eyes half-lidded, and fuck, that's a sight that's going to be burnt in the inside of Eve's retinas up to the day she dies.

“What do you want, Eve?” Villanelle asks, lips hovering over a sweet spot Eve didn't know she had until minutes ago. That bastard. “Tell me what you want.”

“I – ” _Everything. Anything. For us to become so wrapped up in each other that I can't tell where I stop and you start._ “I want you. I want you inside me. I want – I want to feel you. I _want –_ ”

Something that sounds like a bitten-back growl, and Villanelle surges up, slants their mouths together again. It's a kiss that feels like a claim, bruising and desperate. She fits their lips together and _takes_. Their teeth clink, their tongues mesh, and it's perfect, and it's not nearly enough –

“Please please please,” Eve keeps chanting in the half-seconds she's given to breathe. Villanelle is trailing a hand down her stomach, over the jut of her hipbone. She reaches between her legs and _presses,_ once, hard, with the heel of her palm, and Eve _whines,_ like an animal, like she's dying for it, the sensation spreading, pooling in her gut, and since when is sex like this, Jesus _Fuck_ –

Villanelle mutters something she doesn't understand. Eve cants her hips. Together, they manage to get her panties past her thighs, her feet, until she's finally naked, and it's not just skin being exposed, she's been stripped bare of all appearances, left nude for Villanelle to see.

There's no warning, no time to brace herself before two fingers slip inside her. She's not had sex in ages, is reminded of that now. She feels the stretch of them all the way to her stomach, and _yes yes yes –_

She realises she's been speaking out loud when Villanelle shuts her up with another kiss. She pushes in deeper, and then she's moving, fingers twisting, flexing, and Eve's pretty sure first times aren't supposed to be this good, this _much._ It's supposed to be clumsy and a bit awkward, except that it isn't, and Eve thinks she's breaking apart, coming undone –

She's left with enough sense to get a thigh between Villanelle's legs, a hand on the woman's hips. She presses up, guides her down. Villanelle's wet, slick and dripping with it. She groans next to Eve's ear, legs tightening around her own, so she does it again, pressing up with as much strength as she can muster.

“Look at me, Eve,” Villanelle says, sitting back just enough for their eyes to meet. Eve has to focus to hold that gaze. It's like looking at fire. The other woman looks wild and debauched and free. “Look at me.”

And she does something, crooks her fingers, and when did two become three, and Eve's coming, splinting at the seams, shattering into a million pieces, liquid-blue eyes never leaving hers, feral, fascinated, and she's trapped, hypnotized, _shaking_ –

The speed her heart is racing, she's not going to catch her breath ever again, so she doesn't wait for it to slow down, leaves herself to room to hesitate before she rolls Villanelle over, before she's kneeling between the woman's legs. Villanelle seems content to let her, an intrigued tilt to her head.

“My turn,” Eve says, sounding a lot calmer than she feels.

She presses her mouth to Villanelle's throat, licks at a pulse point to feel the warm skin flutter against her lips. She trails lower, over the woman's collarbone, to the round, inviting shape of her breasts, the flesh smooth and yielding on her tongue. She sucks at a nipple, rolls it between her teeth. Villanelle's breath hitches. She doesn't react otherwise. Eve wants to make her lose all the control she has. She wants to see her fall apart, destroyed.

So she moves lower. She takes her time, as much for Villanelle's benefit as for her own. She lingers on the few scars she comes across, kisses the torn, jagged skin, past Villanelle's ribs, across her stomach. She mouths at her pelvis. She's never done this before, but she's had it done to her, and she's a fast learner if nothing else.

Villanelle shaves, but a few dark, wiry curls tickle her nose. She's not sure what to do. Villanelle helps, spreads her legs wider, and Eve looks at her, her kiss-swollen lips and fevered eyes, before she runs the flat of her tongue over her labia, works her way up in one broad sweep. It's got a faint metallic taste, not altogether unpleasant. Villanelle's hips twitch under her hands, as though she's keeping herself from pushing up, demanding more, so she does it again, more assured, and the assassin's hands slide through her hair, scrape at her scalp.

“Eve,” she says. “Eve – ”

Eve breathes through her nose, uses her lips, the tip of her tongue, until she finds Villanelle's clitoris. She seals her mouth over the small bundle of nerves and sucks as hard as she can, tongue darting in to lap and tease. She releases Villanelle's hips, grips the top of her thighs instead, lets the woman move as she wants, push herself up into her mouth. She's not sure which one of them is moaning. Maybe it's the two of them, the sound bouncing back and forth indefinitely. It feels good to be doing this. It is freeing, to let go of all restraint, to give and take unreservedly. It's like she's finding herself between Villanelle's legs, grounded only by the fingers fisted in her hair, the slight pain a call back to her own body.

She sucks until her chin is dripping, until Villanelle's hips lose their rhythm, until the woman's thighs close around her shoulders, trembling, and she's arching off the bed, bent in two, head thrown back, mouth parted in a silent cry.

Watching Villanelle orgasm is almost as good as coming herself. Eve holds the woman through it, rests her head low on her stomach as she comes down from the high. She's panting, her breathing stuttering, erratic. They both are.

“Eve,” Villanelle says eventually, and the sound of her voice is enough to have the hairs on the back of Eve's neck stand on end. “Eve, come here.”

When she's too slow to comply, Villanelle grabs her arms and hauls her in, on top her her, kisses her deep like she's chasing her own taste on Eve's tongue.

Then she makes her come again.

And again.

She returns the favour. Fucks Eve with her tongue. Until her voice breaks, until she's boneless, her head rolling on her shoulders. She gets behind Eve and slides her fingers inside her again, a hand splayed on her stomach. When it's too much, when Eve feels delirious with it, she finds lube and does it all over again. There's something reverent in the way she touches her. Like she can't bear to let go, like she'll never be satiated.

Eve maps out Villanelle's body. She makes discoveries about her own.

“Good?” she asks, fingers buried deep in Villanelle's tight heat, dizzy that she's allowed to be doing this, to see her in this state. Villanelle is straddling her, thighs on either sides of her waist. She looks like a goddess. Her hair cascades down her back, spills across her skin, gold on gold, and she –

She rocks down.

The noise she makes is _obscene_. Eve wants to hear it again. She adds another finger, and losses track of time.

They stop, eventually. The greyish-pink light of dawn slants from the window, pools on the ground without disturbing them. They're glistening with cooling sweat and spit and slick. So completely lost to each other's scent that they're indiscernible. Eve needs a bath, badly. But Villanelle's nose is in her hair, her arms are around her, their legs tangled. The last thing she wants to do is move. Shatter the peace and quiet.

She's going to ache in the morning. She's got hickeys and bite marks and bruises all over her throat and neck and shoulders. She's going to feel this night for days to come, through every pulled, sore muscle. She's also going to have to think about what this all means, at some point. About herself, and about her future.

She's made love to an internationally wanted assassin, and now that Villanelle has got her, Eve knows, all the way down to her soul, that she's never going to let her go. Their lives are irreparably entwined. They're going to keep rising together, higher and higher, until their hubris takes its toll, until they go crashing into the abyss, and end up sprawled, lifeless in the dust.

But these are concerns for another time.

“Will you stay?” she asks.

And Villanelle says, “Yes,” simply, as though it's an evidence. _Yes my love, of course I'm going to stay._ She says, “Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu'importe? Au fond de l'Inconnu pour trouver du nouveau.”

It sounds French. It sounds like a poem. Eve doesn't question it. For now, she shifts closer to Villanelle, as close as she can get, lets her eyes fall shut, and allows the warmth in her chest to bloom into something not unlike happiness.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The lines in French are the two final verses from Charles Baudelaire's Le Voyage.  
> And now I'm off to wait for episode 6. Christ, this is torture.


End file.
